


At the Starlit Court

by Left_Handed_Darkness



Series: The man who defied the gods [1]
Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: Breith Eaman, Euphemisms, GG Thaos, Gen, NGL this was a really interesting choice playing the character I did, TFW the thing that's meant to inspire faith makes the resident atheist more atheisty, Teir Evron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 15:07:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17388653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Left_Handed_Darkness/pseuds/Left_Handed_Darkness
Summary: The Watcher faces a choice at Teir Evron - but sees right through the trials placed ahead of him.





	At the Starlit Court

_ “Just choose a place to pray. Any god will do, any at all.” _

The Delemgan’s voice still lingered in his mind, as did the laughter that had escaped from him; leaving painful, thorny barbs stuck in his throat. It was coarse enough,  _ harsh _ enough, to have suffocated the fading screams that echoed from the ruins of Engwith. The torment of souls long lost had been silenced by the absurdity of it all.

Of all the suggestions the two primals could have made, this one was either the cruellest or most desperate and improbable. Did they really think he was so easily defeated?

Saviéran’s mind went to what they had told him of Breith Eaman; the Court of the Penitents.  _ That was the point _ , he mused,  _ to intimidate the faithless - to force them to kneel before the Queen That Was _ .

Disgust and outrage burned in his heart, tempered only by the shard of adra bàn that rested from the thin copper chain worn beneath his shirt. Perhaps that was the only thing keeping him sane now, the only thing preventing him from adding his own voice to the chorus of madness that echoed through Eir Glanfath and the Dyrwood. The hand of Woedica left scars both old and new - the hand that turned the Leaden Key, the hand that brought order at the price of suffering. The hand that held the brand and-

He didn’t care about her much. He didn’t care about any of them. If anything, his musings about the gods had resulted in apathy; that if there  _ were _ gods, they were too distant and otherworldly to care about or even interfere in the lives of mortals. At the most, they were concepts for others to embody - and he’d seen the work of those who held such concepts above the lives of others.

No. He’d lived it.

Twice now, apparently - if he could hold any claim over a life he shared a soul with. Could he?

In the end, it only made him more resolute, even as his fingers turned crinkled pages, and pale blue eyes studied the words upon them. If Breith Eaman was meant to turn an atheist into a believer, it had failed already.

If service to the gods had to be paid in blood and torment, then those gods were unworthy of worship.

He glanced towards the Engwithen apparatus at the centre of the room - a raised dais on which a cluster of adra shards shone, a beacon amidst the darkness. The glassy floor surrounding it was littered with star charts, radiating essence as if it were a ghostly hearth.If this place held any further spectres of that old life, then they had been pushed back - drowned out by the quiet  _ attention _ lingering in Teir Evron. There was  _ something _ there, something old and heavy - like the weight of his soul, and the adra bàn pendant. Perhaps moreso, as if a thousand ancient spirits stared down from the gallery of some unseen court. A jury to the damned.

Or an audience. What was a courtroom but an opportunity to challenge the court?

_ If _ the delemganŵn were correct about Teir Evron’s connection to realms beyond, and that it was possible to get a reply from the gods - those embodied concepts - there was a choice to be made. A deal to be struck.

He placed the last of the prayer books back on the shelf, sitting on the steps and falling deep in thought. Eyes played upon the constellations that formed the insignias of each god, scars upon the night sky that shifted at the feet of altars that bordered the great map. And then his gaze shifted elsewhere.

“Durance?”

“And now our Watcher breaks his silence - a silence that says more than his words ever did.” The priest’s mouth contorted into a smirk that looked almost like a grimace, voice underscored by what Saviéran could only assume was schadenfreude. He mirrored Durance with his own cold smile and narrowed eyes, not allowing the priest the slightest hint of satisfaction.

_ You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? _

“You’ve said it many times over that a temple to the gods is nothing more than a brothel, and they care for nothing but the transaction agreed upon. That any allegiance relies wholly on what one gives in return for their services?” Saviéran’s voice was quiet, but it held a commanding sharpness to it - blades with which to pierce the tension lingering in the air.

“I see that you’ve not wasted your breath waffling on after all.” Durance walked closer using his staff as a cane, every hard tap echoing in the vaulted chamber. It took an effort of will for Saviéran not to tense at his approach, still expecting to meet the priest’s fury. “Tell me, Watcher, are you finally going to indulge yourself at long last and rid yourself of your chastity?”

“Only if you’re willing to cover the costs. Humour aside, the question still stands - it’s not explicit  _ faith _ that they demand, simply a service. That what you can provide for them is of more importance than what lurks within your mind, correct?” He tapped a finger against his temple, not once taking his eyes off the mad priest.

“If Magran cares little for  _ my _ indecencies, Watcher, I’m sure the rest of the whores in this den of lechery won’t care for your disinterest. If their appetites are like those of kith, they’ll take pride in having new territory to conquer.” Durance appeared to be one bad pun away from bursting out into laughter. Perhaps one of his own makin

“That’s the point of all this, really. Teir Evron, Breith Eaman, the Inquisition. It’s about conquest and coercion. A display of power in the hopes that the fear and awe inspired will leave a lasting impression - faith. Or at least a sense of gratitude.”

Durance’s deathly smirk grew into a grin, yet he said nothing - a silent prompt for Saviéran to continue.

“Yet if it’s a romance they’re after, they’ll have to live with the disappointment. The most I’ll agree to is a short dalliance, and even then my mind will be focussed on other matters. There’s a sharp gulf between the closest of friends and allies of convenience, and I intend to remain the on the farthest shore from these opportunistic souls. But of course, there’s still a choice isn’t there?”

“You’re a picky one. But at least you’re not hopelessly  _ poetic _ as those Vailian windbags.” Durance looked over the assembled altars with a critical eye, his expression settling back into its usual scowl. “But do tell me more, Watcher. The Godhammer only deafened one ear, and you’ve not finished chewing off the other one.”

“That I haven’t, though at this rate I’m going to have to start picking the cartilage out from between my teeth. But the matter is that the gods - when you strip away the idea that they  _ demand _ faith with an iron grasp - are  _ concepts _ . Each of them represents an idea or a value in its most abstract form. And ideas-” Saviéran shot the priest a devilish grin “-can be  _ agreed with _ .”

“Or opposed.”

“Exactly.”

Durance remained silent. Saviéran couldn’t tell whether or not that was a good sign - or if the priest was about to crack out the branding irons. Though if Durance was going to turn on him, he wouldn’t be subtle about it. So in the end, silence was preferable.

Once more, he stared at the star chart, considering each of his options.

Woedica was out. Oppression dressed up in the guise of justice, and wearing a crown of authority - authority cast down for a  _ reason _ . For so long, he’d stood against tyrants whose power lay within the laws they upheld, and to turn to the  _ incarnation  _ of such a thing would have been more than hypocrisy. It would be a betrayal of all that he was.

Galawain - the explorer, the hunter, and the love of discovery - was of  _ interest _ . Whilst many saw him as a symbol of survival and predation, the Lord of the Hunt was also representative of those who sought the truths and buried mysteries of the world. The latter were ideals Saviéran shared, yet such focus needed to be tempered by compassion, lest it brought harm in its wake. The wilderness was an amoral thing, capable of equal parts beauty and cruelty.

Berath. Ha. No.

Then his eyes settled on the shape of a winged egg, lingering on the soft curves of the symbol. Hylea, the patron of art and creation; of life, hope, and childbirth.

His mind skipped back to a child he’d seen back in Defiance Bay, an unmoving shell with glassy and lifeless eyes. Neither a cry nor whimper escaped from her mouth, and even the care of her parents hadn’t brought any warmth to an empty heart. A little life, one of many whose future had been stolen by a cruel hand.

A future he wished to return.

Saviéran rose to his feet and took a slow, deep breath. The silence broke with every step that led him through the vaulted chamber, only to return as he reached the winged emblem.

Durance was staring at him, eyes loaded with judgement at what the priest clearly considered to be a poor choice. But Saviéran couldn’t care less as he peered down an the small altar. It was a humble thing; decorated only with simple carvings and a candle, and holding a few small offerings of feathers and windchimes. Simple and approachable - though with the knowledge of Breith Eamen still lingering in his mind, he knew how deceptive such a thing was.

One hand held an executioner’s blade, whilst the other presented a welcoming gesture; the carrot and the stick. Yet he would not kneel. Even if his soul’s awakening left his mind unravelling, he would still have his dignity - even if it was all that he had left.

His mouth moved, but not in prayer. The words were an incantation, a beacon of intent and essence to burn in the night’s sky, brighter than the stars themselves. Fatigue and the whispers of ages past gnawed at his soul; but that didn’t matter. Not when a madman - a zealot - would steal the lives of innocents and incite destruction to cover his tracks.

An embodiment of life and creativity should abhor such an atrocity. That was the wager everything rested upon.

_ "Live every note of life's song..." _

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry but all the sex jokes *had* to happen


End file.
